Poems by James Sadwick

Nobody tells you about the broken window--

the sharp report of shattering dreams,

the scattered pieces left at your feet,

or how carefully you will gather them.

There are shards the color of blood,

scarlet with grief, loss, and longing.

Dark fragments drift like shadowed glass,

holding fear, regret, and silent nights.

Some pieces gleam in shades of blue,

splintered tears caught in crystal water,

while others glow with fleeting gold--

moments of joy too brief to keep.

Each fragment carries its own story,

its own wound, its own reflection.

Alone, they seem jagged and unfinished,

broken remnants of a life undone.

But time becomes the lead between them,

patient hands fitting edge to edge,

until pain, hope, sorrow, and wonder

find their place beside one another.

And when the light finally passes through,

the broken window is broken no longer.

Its fractures become a stained-glass portrait,
radiant with every color.

For it is not despite the shattered pieces

that the artwork becomes beautiful--

it is because of them